Just Breathe
by SashaDaae
Summary: We Basterds were meant to live on the outskirts, I guess, killing and maiming, even if that wasn't the life we lead before the war. I was born a Basterd, and I am going to die a Basterd.


Lyrics belong to Pearl Jam, characters to Tarantino. I am but a devoted fan.

Reviews are always appreciated. :)

This one-shot has a slight tie in with my other IB story _War Paint_, but is also a good old fashioned read alone as well!

* * *

_Yes I understand that every life must end, _

_As we sit alone, I know someday we must go, _

_I'm a lucky man to count on both hands_

_The ones I love_

It was weird, being back in Manhattan. I felt like I didn't recognize anything or anyone, not even my house or my father. Things that had stayed the same were foreign and strange. Even my own bedroom was offensive in a way- I should be sleeping on the ground or in a shitty metal bed frame, not a nice mattress. I didn't want to talk to my cousins or the rabbi. In the weeks after my return, I mostly sat in my room, unnecessarily loading and un-loading my handgun. I half-expected a German to crawl through my window some days.

Father kept trying to talk to me, but eventually the knocks on the door and the questions left hanging in the air faded. Until, of course, he started reading stuff about a "redneck named Aldo Raine" in the newspaper.

Then I had to explain things, there was no getting around it. Lucky for me Aldo hadn't given the names of our group out- at least not in those initial months. But more and more newspapers were picking up on it, and I guess he found it to be a way to comfort the families of our dead friends (or maybe it just made more sense to say their damn names already) by telling reporters about Wicki and Hirschberg and Omar and Donny and the others.

Then I made the decision- I wasn't going back to school. God knows why, but I couldn't bear the thought of living a mundane life as a doctor. Father had been furious and gone off on a rant on how he didn't come to this country as a boy to have a failure as a son and so on.

For the first time in my life, I'd yelled back. I was swearing at him in Ukrainian as his face became more and more red. The fact that I spoke his (and my mother's) native language was enough to anger him- _that_ was a language reserved only for important topics and not an argument. I told him he was a fool to think I would bow to his every whim and let him shape me into someone he wanted me to be- that is, an exact copy of himself.

The idea I would respond and not meekly bow my head and nod, as I used to, infuriated him even more. But what did he expect? You don't come back from a war, killing people and all, to be the same person. It doesn't work that way. I know that, Aldo knows that. It's a fact, and I don't need science or a textbook to tell me so. I have my nightmares and anxiety to tell me that.

It's been six, maybe seven months, and it's about time that I pay a visit to the synagogue. Ordinarily I would feel guilty- the one thing my father cared for was faith, despite his many hypocrisies. But I've gone numb to my religion, just as I've gone numb to the smiles from girls on the street and the random "thank yous" from strangers.

Returning to the synagogue was kind of like digging up an old pair of pants you haven't worn in a year- you pull them out and stare at them for a while before deciding to ease one leg into them, then the other. Visiting the rabbi was an idea I had mulled over in my mind over and over again, yet never put into action. This morning, though, I awoke to my drunken father sprawled across the couch and decided it was time. I'd dug through my closet and found my old uniform, pulling it on without a second thought, feeling a heavy weight in one of the pockets.

I hesitated a moment. I didn't want to be stared at by everyone on the street. Granted, they'd stare anyway. But still...

I grabbed my father's leather jacket and yanked it over the uniform.

_Some folks have just one,_

_Others they got none,_

_Stay with me..._

_Let's just breathe_

It's cold for October, I notice. I sniff and turn to the left, stuffing my hands impatiently in my pockets.

The Little One, the Little Man. Shit, I knew I was short. But now with those stupid names in mind I feel smaller in the crowd around me, like a lost child.

A lost child. That's how I felt when I first got to Europe. I still don't really know why I went- I suppose I could have skirted the draft with father's help, but I didn't want to. It's not like I have something to prove or I was doing it to make anyone happy. I was amazed I even made it.

But really, none of that matters. It's the past, leave it alone for once, Smithson.

Wandering through the streets, I can't help but remember all the little kindnesses paid me- as well as the assaults. Hirschberg never liked me, nor did Kagan or Sakowitz. There were jokes and insults to my face and to my back; I was the youngest and the smallest, after all, and to most that equalled weakness and ignorance.

The others, for the most part, acted like I wasn't there. I was _the smart kid_, which I guess bred a little bit of resentment. Well, maybe resentment isn't the right word. It was more along the lines of some rounds of condescending questions on why a kid who could that could get into "Stanfahd o' Hahvahd" was serving with the Basterds.

I didn't have an answer then, and I still don't.

"Sorry, Smithson." a young woman smiles after accidently knocking into me. Am I supposed to know her? She's probably the daughter of a friend of my father's, but I don't recognize her with all the heavy make-up and the garish coat she's wearing. I nod and shuffle out of the way, hoping to avoid a conversation.

Finally, the B'nai Jeshurun is in sight. I feel a little like a traitor, standing outside its entrance. I slowly pull out my hand to open the huge door when another man yanks it open and shoves past me, making wide steps down onto the street, as if he had something more important to do. I watch him leave before entering.

It's uncomfortably quiet and still. I glance around, absorbing the interior that I haven't seen in..well, nearly three years now.

"Smithson Utivich! My dear boy, I was wondering when I may see you again." the booming voice breaks the stillness.

"_Shalom, _Rabbi Dobrin." I nod.

"Shalom, shalom!" he hugs me and pats me on the back. Rabbi Dobrin hasn't changed a bit since I last saw him- he looks just like the men dressed as Santa Claus seen around the streets during the holidays with his beard and small eyeglasses. The man never stops smiling, and it's a small comfort. "I haven't seen you for the longest time. Come, come, let's go to my office, I have leftover babka, I share it with you and we talk, all right?"

_Practiced are my sins,_

_Never gonna let me win, _

_Under everything, just another human being, _

_Yeah, I don't wanna hurt, there's so much in this world_

_to make me bleed_

I jump when the rabbi closes the door with a bang. He must have noticed my reaction to the loud noise as his eyes narrow slightly. "Take off your jacket, boy, I promise you my office is not a freezer." he chuckles. I shrug it off hesitantly, clutching it in my hands as I sit down.

He takes his time sitting down across from me, shifting a couple of things on his desk, pulling out a little tin with the babka in it. He hands me a rather large piece on a napkin before leaning over the desk, his hands clasped together. His eyes are looking over his glasses, like a teacher ready to scold a child for doing something naughty.

I feel absurdly like that child.

"Now, tell me, Smithson, why are you here? Your father tells me you've been back for so long, but I never see you, not even at the mitzvahs or the gatherings or even on the streets! You hiding from us all?"

I choke on the piece of babka, the chocolate sticking in my throat. To my horror I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I shake my head profusely, hoping he won't notice I'm crying, especially since I'm in my uniform.

"I've done awful things," I croak. "Am I bad, rabbi? Am I a bad person for what I have done? I wanted to do the right thing and I thought I was but now I'm home and nothing is all right, rabbi, I don't _belong_ here."

He sighs slowly. "I had a feeling you would ask that." Rabbi Dobrin leans back in his chair as I'm sitting here like a fool, gulping for air. "Smithson, you are not a bad man."

"You're a rabbi." I respond, wiping away a tear. Shit, why can't I stop crying for once? "You're supposed to tell me I've done murder, aren't you?"

Silence. I stare at my coat, ashamed of my tears. The last time I cried was at night, into my pillow. The nightmares of Hugo's dead body, a vision of Donny's body exploding, pieces of him catching the flame and burning into nothing but ash.

"My dear boy," the rabbi begins softly, "there is a difference between killing and murder. What you have done is...certainly not smiled upon, the circumstances certainly make it different. These men deprived others of life through their cruelty not only to our people, but to many others. Life is a privilege, Smithson."

I glance up at him, feeling the moisture drip down to my lips and chin. "I'm not sorry, but.." I shake my head, confused. "I don't even know what I think anymore, rabbi. I thought I had it all worked out on that plane, but I don't and-"

"Deep breaths, my boy." he reminds gently. "You have been in very different circumstances than the boys who served in the Pacific and in Europe. I can assure you they feel much the same as you do. It takes adjusting, child."

"You don't know what I did!" I cry. "Have you read the newspapers? Have you read what Aldo Raine says about- about scalping and sticking knives and guns and beating guys with baseball bats and blowing up a theater? It takes more adjusting than just six months, I'll probably be _dead_ by the time I-I-... I'm not sorry, rabbi, but you don't _understand,_ the others don't understand, no one can understand!"

He sighs again. "I have read the papers, that is why I say you have been in different circumstances. And I did not say it takes two, three, four months before your life is ever normal again. If there is such thing as normal, that is." he smiles.

_Don't fahget about me when ya go back home, Smithson. _Donny's hand on my shoulder is a phantom feeling that makes me shiver. Donny, my protector when Hirschberg's insults rained down on me. Donny, who gave me his last cigarette, even when we were in the middle of nowhere and he was craving for a smoke.

Donny, the bomb around his ankle exploding. I remember a nightmare I have- what if it was defunct? What if Donny was left struggling until the flames are licking his legs, engulfing him, burning him alive? I cry harder, covering my face with my trembling hands.

"Smithson." the rabbi's voice is firm, and I feel his own hands pressing on my shoulders. "You must go on living, child. For your friends, you see?"

_Stay with me..._

_You're all I see_

When I exit the synagogue I'm still wiping frantically at my eyes, the babka stuffed in the jacket's pocket. I told myself, when I came home, I was done crying. I'd seen war. I wasn't a child anymore. Guess I was wrong on that.

I'd visited Boston and met Donny's parents, shown them the bat. They insisted I keep it. "After all, he gave it to you!" they had exclaimed. They hadn't invited me in, but with good reason- they were leaving Boston. For where, they did not say. Before I walked down the stoop Mrs. Donowitz had pressed into my hands a portrait of Donny, taken not long before he had departed for Italy. "To remember him," she had whispered, her lower lip trembling.

_Holy hell, Utivich, do you know what could have happened if there were Germans in the area? They could have fucking killed us, ya little idiot!_

_I'm sorry, Hirschberg, it's not like I fell asleep on purpose, I haven't slept in three nights-_

_None of us have, Harvard. _He had turned to Kagan, irritated. _I swear, we should just leave him here and let the Krauts deal with him._

Donny had stood behind me, glaring silently at Hirschberg. _Then you get watch for the next four days, Hirschberg. Wasn't it you who was supposed to take it these past four nights but would rather spend your time drinking the beer _I _knicked? I think the kid's earned some time off. _He paused, placing a hand on my shoulder. _If there's anyone who needs leavin' to the Germans it's you two incompetent shit-bags._

I take a deep breath before I start walking again. I don't feel like going home, not just yet. There's always the park, or the deli, or maybe I could stop at the museum or something..

But I'm trapped. A soldier, a Basterd, doesn't belong in any of those places. They are too tame and humane. Those places are reserved for ordinary folks.

_We're never gonna be normal, Smitty._ Aldo had sighed on the plane. And he's right. When I eat, when I smoke, I always hold my breath and wait for a comment or a stupid joke that never arrives, and I'm left with a knot in my throat. Whenever I see the men at the deli with their knives I have to swallow as memories of the dagger I keep hidden in my closet, its German inscription glowing on the blade arise.

"Hey, kid, get outta the way!" an angry voice snaps, hurriedly pushing me out of the way. The man glances at me, his eyes wide, and immediately apologizes. "Sorry, Mr. Utivich, didn't mean any harm." I gape. The fact that these strangers know who I am, know my name- I can't stand it.

I take yet another deep breath, hoping it will calm me down. _Don't worry, kid. Everything will be fine. _Omar was wrong, but compared to him, my fate- suffering day by day the memories of the Basterds- is much more fair compared to his. I feel slightly nauseous as I stumble down the street.

"I'll just go home now," I whisper, even though no one is listening to me, no one is looking at the poor kid in the uniform.

_Did I say that I need you?_

_Did I say that I want you?_

_Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool, you see..._

_No one knows this more than me,_

_As I come clean_

Father's still not home. I gasp and slam the door behind me, my head pounding. What the hell was I thinking, putting this stupid uniform on?

_"Smithson." it was Stiglitz, speaking softly. It had to be, as no one else used the kids' first name. Utivich glanced up, away from the Nazi he was scalping. The man was smiling in a knowing way. "One hundred, isn't that?" he nodded and pointed his boot at the dead man._

_"Oh, yeah." Utivich laughed. "Yeah, it is." He said it in a funny, offhand sort of way, as if he had just found money in his pocket or something lucky like that. Stiglitz clapped the kid on the back, grinning. _

_"Full of surprises, aren't you, kid?"_

A creak. I freeze. Shit. I locked the door, didn't I? I must have, because I unlocked it to get back in, you idiot. How did they get in?

I lick my lips and glance around the room. No Krauts, Smithson, you're at home, you stupid shit...I feel like slapping myself across the face. I wander slowly to a chair and collapse in it, rubbing my temple. I'm letting everything get to me. You're tough, Smithson, you've been to hell and back, don't let this shit get to you.

_But that's the problem! It has been getting to you! You don't like loud noises or creaking or strangers talking to you in the street or anything! What's with you, Little Man? Scared of the dark?_

Did any of them know? In my naivety I was so sure that most of us would come back alive- Hugo and Wicki and Omar and Donny and Aldo and maybe even Hirschberg. Of course we had all virtually signed our lives away, handed Death an I.O.U. But we were the Basterds, and up until the first death of our group- Zimmerman- it was like we were invincible.

Then Operation Kino, and the two Germans had a death sentence looming over them like a heavy cloud. Every card game we played leading up to the night at the restaurant became all the more precious. Of course, we didn't count on them being killed in the restaurant. We didn't count on Aldo, Omar, and Donny being the replacements.

But this is how war works. Not everything can be to your advantage. You don't win every round of cards- and isn't that what war is? A bunch of men playing a dangerous game, but with rifles and tanks and human beings instead of hearts and clubs?

I am forgetting what they all look like. Sometimes I panic, unwilling to lose the visages of the men who became my greatest friends. I hear their voices in my nightmares every now and then, but their faces are lost in shadows of rifles and trees and men in Nazi uniforms.

_I wonder everyday_

_As I look upon your face, _

_Everything you gave_

_And nothing you would take, _

_Nothing you would take..._

_Everything you gave_

"Smithson?"

It's father. I groan and open my eyes groggily, my legs sprawled over the edges of the seat. No wonder I felt like they were on fire.

He's leering at me from the doorway, still holding his briefcase. "What you do, lazing about like that?" he grumbles, wiping his feet and setting the briefcase down. "You go see Rabbi." it's matter of fact, not a question. I nod. "You talk to him, who isn't even your family, but ignore me? Oy, why do I have such a child?" he appeals to the wall. "He go to war and come back all big-headed, tell me he don't need school or nothin' and I find him sleeping on my chair! Probably drunk," he adds, scowling.

"That's _your_ job." I snap, pushing myself up off the couch and meandering through the hallway, blinking still from the sudden rush of light. He mutters something under his breath in Ukrainian, but I don't bother to listen.

I remember how Aldo reacted when I gave him the baseball bat. He was confused, the only time I ever saw my lieutenant that way. I could have told him how nervous Donny had been about Operation Kino, how he had confessed everything to me. But Aldo wouldn't be up for that conversation. I gave him Donny's portrait too. I had a feeling he would need it more than me.

_Did I say that I need you?_

_Oh, Did I say that I want you?_

_Oh, if I didn't I'm a fool, you see_

_No one knows this more than me..._

_like I come clean_

I lock the bathroom door behind me and run the water. I take a deep breath as I hear his footsteps click past the door, stop a moment, then continue on their way. I'm sweating through the uniform with anxiety. I'm sorry, Rabbi, that I won't see you again. But you were wrong. I cannot go on living for them, because this is not the life they would lead. I'm sorry, Aldo, for leaving you to be the last survivor- but that's what you were designed to be, right? A survivor. The guy to tell others our story.

We Basterds were meant to live on the outskirts, I guess, killing and maiming, even if that wasn't the life we lead before the war. I stop the water, as it is dangerously close now to overflowing onto the floor. Hugo's dagger is heavy in my pocket as I step into the tub. I'm not trembling, nor am I afraid.

Smitty, the Little Man, the Little One, Smithson Utivich. He wasn't made to be a doctor or to live in Manhattan and marry a Jewish girl.

I was born to be a Basterd, and I am going to die a Basterd.

_Nothing you would take..._

_Everything you gave._

_Hold me till I die..._

_Meet you on the other side_


End file.
